


Shut Up, Murphy

by subplotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Canon Divergent, Degradation, Dominance, Mentions of Violence, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, No Lube, Non-Negotiated Kink, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spoilers for Season 2, Submission, There might be a little bit of plot though, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Very vague mentions of torture, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3280553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subplotter/pseuds/subplotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're unbelievable," says Bellamy.</p><p>"You should let Clarke stay too."</p><p>"I'm not letting anyone stay. As soon as you sober up, you're getting the fuck out of here."</p><p>"We'll see."</p><p>Bellamy looks at Murphy like he's gonna punch him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Up, Murphy

**Author's Note:**

> Fic #928931 in which Clarke tends to Murphy's wounds. SORRY. Hit me up on [tumblr](http://somebodysmonster.tumblr.com) if you'd like <3.

"Do you remember that time I held a knife to your throat? I think about it a lot." Murphy's voice comes out languid and rough. He's drunk. And he's got little injuries all over his body from getting into a bad fight with Bellamy, who apparently can't take a little joke about torture even though he was so mean to Murphy about his.

Bellamy is standing next to her, a few feet back. He's got his arms crossed. He has injuries too, but Clarke bandaged those up first, and there are far fewer. Murphy was never good at fighting with Bellamy. His limbs always get so warm and limp. He always caves.

"You're on a roll tonight," says Bellamy, and the anger is still evident down the length of his form, the sternness in his voice slipping into Murphy's moonshine-soaked head. He wants him. He's always wanted him, but he knows even without asking that that is forbidden.

Clarke presses antiseptic--it's probably moonshine, too--against a particularly nasty wound over Murphy's brow bone, and he hisses, reaching out to grip at Clarke, his fingers finding her thigh.

They're on the floor of Bellamy's tent. Clarke wouldn't let them go to Medical to save them both from punishment. _You've been through enough,_ she'd said.

Bellamy says, "Get your hands off her."

"Sorry." Murphy pulls his fingers back, looking up at Bellamy warily, eyes big and innocent, but Bellamy doesn't budge. His expression is hard; there's a crease between his brows. Murphy remembers how pale he looked when he got back, but now it's like he never had his bone marrow extracted at all.

"Bellamy, it's okay. He's drunk."

Murphy turns his gaze onto Clarke's cinched features. She's concentrating hard as she's bandaging him. Murphy's eyes go soft, and his mouth goes lopsided. "I love it when you patch me up."

"Why's that, Murphy," she says, bored.

"Your hands are soft. People don't touch me."

Her eyes focus in on his, touched with sympathy.

Bellamy says, "Jesus Christ, are you buying this?" And that earns him a glare from Clarke. His eyes change. He drops his arms and sighs. But he looks at Murphy then, and though his tone is softer, he's not letting up. "Look I know Murphy helped save my life, but that doesn't mean he gets a free pass."

"I'm right here, Bellamy."

"Yeah, I know you are."

"Lecture me more. I love it." The words are sarcastic, but needlessly so. Murphy does love it. It makes him angry, but it makes him feel something new, and fuck if it doesn't make him want to be _good._ Doesn't matter how good he is, though. Bellamy doesn't care.

Clarke says, "Both of you be quiet. I'm almost done."

Murphy says, "Take your time, Princess."

And Bellamy growls. He thinks it's his name for her, even though Finn came up with it.

Clarke's expression is tight, distracted. She moves to lift up Murphy's shirt, touching her soft fingertips along the bruises at his ribs.

Murphy makes a noise in his throat. His muscles tense under her hands. He'd die to have her touch him here, if Bellamy wasn't there, watching Murphy so close.

"Bellamy," Clarke says sternly, looking back at him. "You went overboard."

"He went overboard."

"I'm fine," says Murphy. And Bellamy's looking at him with this innocent sort of surprise in his eyes, and Murphy can't stand it. "Don't look at me like that."

Bellamy meets Murphy's eyes, brows crunched in confusion.

"It's how you looked at me after you hanged me."

Bellamy's expression falls into something less sympathetic. "Don't be dramatic, Murphy."

"It's true."

"Come on," says Clarke. She drops his shirt and stands. "Let's get you back to your tent."

"No, I wanna stay here."

Bellamy laughs, short and unmirthful. "Like hell you're staying here."

"What's the matter? I've stayed in your tent before."

"Yeah, like ages ago."

Clarke bends down to pull at Murphy's shoulders, but he shoves them off. "I'm not going."

Clarke looks at Bellamy. "Do you want some moonshine? Because I do."

"Fine," he says. But he's glaring at Murphy with his arms crossed again.

Murphy stays where he is on the ground, sitting near the wall of the tent.

"You're unbelievable," says Bellamy.

"You should let Clarke stay too."

"I'm not letting anyone stay. As soon as you sober up, you're getting the fuck out of here."

"We'll see."

Bellamy looks at Murphy like he's gonna punch him again.

"Do it," says Murphy.

"Do what?"

"Hurt me some more. Kick my bruises. Punch me. You _love_ hurting me. You do it every time you come back. It's like your favorite fucking thing to do."

Bellamy rolls his eyes.

"It is. And every time you come back, all I want to do is be around you, because every time you leave, I think you're dead. Sorry you don't have a sense of humor, Bellamy. Jesus Christ."

"Shut up."

"No. In case you haven't noticed, I don't do what you say anymore. I do what Clarke says. You're just her bitch now. Going off on suicide missions because she says so."

The hatred in Bellamy's eyes is hot.

Murphy's probably lucky Clarke returns in that moment, her eyes big and worried as she surveys them. "...you two making up?"

"Something like that," says Bellamy.

She hands Bellamy a cup of moonshine and sips from her own. And they sit down a few feet away, on Bellamy's blankets. They talk like Murphy isn't here. And it's uncomfortable, but Murphy's tired, and his head's hurting, and he's still drunk.

"You should have brought me some."

"I said, 'Shut up,'" says Bellamy.

*******

Murphy isn't sure how much time has passed when he wakes up. Clarke's fingers are touching the side of his face, tapping lightly over his cheekbone, and she's laughing.

"Murphy, wake up, come on. Come over here."

She smells like moonshine. Murphy lifts his head, and he's still drunk. The tent seems unstable; things are moving around. Bellamy's a dark, sitting shadow over at his stack of blankets.

Murphy groans. Clarke says, "Come on, come on!" And her voice is fucking _loud,_ so he manages, moving onto his hands and knees to crawl over with her to Bellamy.

Bellamy's eyes are broody and serious like always, but he's still got a cup in his hand. When he looks at Murphy, Murphy's stomach flips.

"Lie down," says Clarke. Her eyes are filled with a delirious sort of light, and she pushes Murphy down with a hand at his shoulder.

He falls. He groans again. He's on his back with one of his legs bent.

"What are you doing to me?" he says.

Clarke only giggles.

Bellamy takes a sip. "She got horny."

This must be a dream. This must be some parallel universe Murphy's slipped into accidentally. Because he's never heard anything like that come from Bellamy's mouth, and he's never been the least bit interesting to Clarke. He knows she'd rather he be gone. He knows he's just a problem for her. But her hands are pushing his shirt up, working at the fly of his pants.

Murphy looks at Bellamy. Maybe for confirmation, even if that's a stupid fucking instinct.

"You got a problem with this, Murphy?" he says, raising his brows.

"Uh... No."

"Good." Bellamy takes a long drink. He sets his cup aside.

Clarke pulls Murphy's pants a few inches down his hips, bending down to press kisses to his lower stomach. The sensation's soft and vaguely ticklish, and he squirms some, reaching down to slide a hand into her hair.

Bellamy says, "Don't touch her."

Murphy doesn't listen.

So Bellamy reaches forward, taking both of Murphy's hands and pressing them to the ground above his head. He pins both wrists with one hand. "You've really got to start listening to me, Murphy. I think you doubt sometimes that I've got your best interests at heart."

Murphy makes eye contact. He's too shocked right now to give him the defiant look he would normally. "You're such a dick, Bellamy."

"You like it. It gets you hard as hell."

But alright. Alright. He manages a glare that time.

"Clarke," says Bellamy, and Clarke raises her head to look at him.

"What?" she says.

"You should make him do that for you. Sit on his face. I mean, you don't have to, but--"

Clarke laughs. She crawls up Murphy's form and looks down at his face. "You've got such a nice mouth though," she says, and strokes down his cheek.

Murphy feels something swell in his chest and tries to ignore it. But then she's kissing him, with tongue, and Murphy struggles a little against Bellamy's grip to no avail.

Eventually she stops and stands. She stumbles a little but doesn't fall, balancing herself with one foot on Murphy's left, the other on his right. She takes off her clothes slowly. And Murphy almost forgets about Bellamy altogether as he watches her breasts bounce free, as he watches her strip away every piece, until he's looking right up at the space between her legs.

He whines. He's hard. Bellamy laughs at him.

"Like what you see, Murphy?"

"Obviously," he breathes out.

Bellamy has to move Murphy's arms out of the way so Clarke can sit. He moves to seat himself behind Murphy's head, holding his wrists apart now, one hand on each.

Clarke smiles at Murphy. "Murphy likes me," she says, and she gets down on her knees, places one on each side of his head.

Murphy's warm with anticipation. He's never done this before. But he wants to, badly; he wants to do this for Clarke. When she lowers herself down onto his face, it's hot, and wet, and he licks. He does his best. He's so nervous.

He hears her moan, and wants to dig his fingers into the fat of her thighs, but Bellamy won't let him, and the frustration almost urges him on. She moves her hips, seems to lose herself a bit, and sometimes Murphy can't breathe. Everything becomes slick. Everything becomes her taste and scent. He becomes so hard it's painful, but there's nothing to move against, nowhere to relieve it.

He keeps his eyes closed for most of it, but at one point he opens them and sees Clarke and Bellamy above him, mouths touching, tongues touching. It's hard to pay attention. Clarke's rubbing all over him, wetting the tip of his nose.

Murphy can't breathe all through her orgasm. He gets a bit...scared. He even writhes a little, his legs bending up, but then she's finished.

She pushes herself up higher on her knees, and Murphy breathes harsh breaths.

"Clarke," he says a little helplessly.

She moves down his body, her movements jerky and weak, but then she's kissing him again, her tongue going down his throat. He ruts up. He still can't touch her.

"You're being so gentle, Clarke. He won't know what to do when it's my turn."

When Clarke breaks the kiss, Murphy grits out: "I'm right _here,_ Bellamy."

"I _know,_ Murphy. Are you scared?"

Murphy looks at Bellamy while Clarke places more kisses along his cheek.

"I'm only gentle when I'm drunk," says Clarke.

"I'm not scared," says Murphy.

"You should be," says Bellamy. And then, "Clarke. Move."

She sits up and scowls. "Fine." But she moves off of Murphy, collapsing into the blankets at his side.

It happens very quickly. Bellamy drags him. He pulls him across the ground over to one of the tent poles, shoving him onto his stomach and securing his wrists around it with a piece of that red fucking seatbelt.

Murphy hears Clarke say Bellamy's name a little sternly.

"Don't worry. I won't hurt him."

Murphy doesn't have much faith. His body still hurts from the fight, aching harder now that he's sobering up a bit.

Bellamy's on him so fast. And their both half-clothed, because Bellamy undresses them just enough. It's not long before there are fingers pressing between his legs, going into him.

He hisses. It burns. Bellamy's nose is rubbing against the shell of Murphy's ear, and then his mouth is there, sucking, and Murphy whimpers, his want aching more harshly. He's so sweaty. He swears he can still smell Clarke. And her presence makes this better because he knows Bellamy won't hurt him too bad on her watch.

"Bellamy--"

"Shut _up."_ Bellamy's says it right up against Murphy's ear, and Murphy ruts against the ground. "I'm trying to fuck you, not listen to your bullshit. Is that clear? Say, 'Yes, King.'"

Murphy moans as Bellamy's fingers work inside him, pressing deeper. "Yes, King."

When Bellamy draws them out, he brings his hand down hard against Murphy's ass. The impact's painful; it stings. Murphy whimpers, and he's warmer, and there's sweat at his temples. Everything in him wants another hit, and Bellamy gives him that, hitting him on the opposite side. This time, Murphy moans, the sound broken.

In a moment, Bellamy's leaning down against him. And he's pressing his length to Murphy's entrance, sliding in slow. It's not all the way uncomfortable, but it's tight. He's surprised how easy Bellamy is with it.

"I've wanted this for a long time," he says.

Murphy can't talk. He's not supposed to. He can't.

Once Bellamy's all the way in, he starts thrusting. Murphy's body rocks with his. He gets lost in it. In the pressure, in the waves of pleasure when Bellamy hits deep enough, in the huffed breaths against his ear. When Bellamy wraps his fingers around him, the relief is incredible, but he doesn't stroke. He just grips him tight at the base, and it's torture. Bellamy thrusts and thrusts, and Murphy can't cum, and eventually Bellamy's jerking against him, finishing.

He keeps the hold on Murphy's length as he slides out.

"Take deep breaths," he says, voice heavy, tired. "Calm down."

Murphy tries. But he wants friction; he wants anything. When he squirms, Bellamy hits him on the ass again.

"I can't calm down wh--"

"Shut up." And he hits him once more.

It's useless anyway. Bellamy's squeezing him so hard it's uncomfortable, and he wants it to stop. So he calms down. He forces himself to calm down. Eventually, Bellamy slides his fingers away, and he unties Murphy from the post.

Murphy's weak. He hurts everywhere. Bellamy lifts him up by the collar and deposits him in front of Clarke.

Clarke's eyes are hooded. She's got her fingers moving between her legs.

"Make her cum again," says Bellamy. "Then you can."

Clarke's softness is such a contrast. She draws Murphy close, grips his hand and moves his fingers into her heat. They're front to front. Murphy buries his face in her breasts, sucks on her nipples, makes her whimper and whine. She's so warm. She's so wet. She moves his fingers against her clit and whispers, "Slow," into his ear, guiding him.

He could fall asleep like this, if he wasn't so hard.

She cums when he kisses her neck, his teeth grazing softly over her Adam's apple.

Murphy looks for Bellamy. He slides his fingers out from between Clarke's legs and rolls over onto his back.

When he looks up, he sees Bellamy standing there naked, coming toward them. He gets down on his knees and helps Clarke get Murphy naked too. And then Bellamy's against Murphy's back, and Clarke's at his front, sliding down his body to put her mouth on him.

It only takes a few sucks. Bellamy holds him at the throat and talks in his ear, saying all manner of mean things. "You're pathetic. We should use you like this all the time. You're no good around camp, are you? Better make use of you..." And in a minute or two, Murphy's finishing, shooting into Clarke's mouth.

She swallows. She makes a face as she moves back up, sticking her tongue out.

"I am not doing _that_ again," she says.

Bellamy laughs. He reaches over Murphy to stroke a thumb down her cheek.

And then they fall asleep like this: Bellamy's arm over Murphy's waist and Murphy's face in Clarke's chest, his fingers stroking through her hair until he drifts off.


End file.
